So It Goes
by 60sec400
Summary: "All moments, past, present and future, always have existed, always will exist." Bruce receives a transmission from 12 years in the future. But the man on the other end doesn't know he's not talking to his Bruce, that his final words and last requests won't get through to the people that he knows in his time. He is dying. But in the end, people die. So it goes. Character Death.


**Currently a Oneshot but could change.**

 **I do not own these characters. I am simply using them for my, and other's, enjoyment. Thank you.**

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There are nights in the cave when everything is still and quiet. Anything that is alive has settled down, resting, waiting for the morning. There's not loud sound but steady, soft echoes and in the distance he can hear, from one of the holes he didn't cover up, the rain pattering against hard stone. There's only breathing and the hum of the computer intermingled together with caves own sound of silent life. There's a loneliness captured here too, wrought and dragged together by Bruce's own emotions and the darkness of the cave. But he feels a sense of calmness as he leans back into his chair, coffee long gone cold.

He's reminded of the hikes he and his father took into the woods when he was younger, or the several times they made it out to watch the sunset. He feels at peace, overwhelmed with a sense of togetherness but individuality too. He remembers walking up over a hill, the smell of spring in the air and small green buds just pushing up through the brown leaves, and finding a baby deer. It peered up at him with brown eyes, through long lashes, fear in it's young, new muscles. Bruce backtracked, told his father they couldn't go by, and they found another place to watch the sunset. Everything in tandem, the sounds, the air, the smell; the baby deer with wide eyes, but still existing on their own.

There are nights like these where Bruce feels irrevocably small in his existence, knowing that in the grand scheme of things he's only pulling himself further and further away. He doesn't think about it that long, or acknowledge it afterward. The stream of consciousness is reminiscent of the book about the snail on the wall, his thoughts only moving for the sake of moving and not being asleep. He's tired, and that's probably why he feels this way at all. He wonders about some of his decisions, his life. He thinks of his parents, sometimes. Less and less except for in passing. It's not a bad thing, because perhaps now he's finally moving into some sense of acceptance.

He thinks about Dick. His partner. Son. Someone who's managed to get closer to the real Bruce Wayne than the mask that he presents. Bruce wants to reach out, but never knows how. It's awkward and weird but in the five years they've known each other they've made it work. Dick's independent, well established in his life here and with Bruce and Alfred and in Gotham in general. And they're relationship has only gotten better. Bruce was better at connecting and Dick was patient with him about it. But still a kid. Just still a kid. Bruce never thought he'd think of anyone as his son. He was thankful to John and Mary for raising such an amazing boy.

He felt sorrow for their death, first, and then thankfulness for their lives.

Perhaps it was times like these where he was really himself. He let the Batman cowl fall away and the mask that became Bruce Wayne disappear. His shoulders fell and he appreciated those around him, what was around him, and how it had become. He was thankful for Dick, for the manor, for Alfred, the League, the rain, the silence. Some say he doesn't care, but he might even entertain the idea that he just cares too much.

The transmission comes in then. The computer screen, dim, springs to live with lively blue. There's an incoming call to the Batcave, not from the League. It's unknown, an unfamiliar number that flashes across the screen. Bruce sits up, eyes and mind focused on what's in front of him. He works around it and slowly but dolefully accepts it.

A weary voice speaks through the speakers, sounding relieved. "Bruce," it whispers. There's a familiarity there, and pain. Bruce can hear wearied breathing on the end.

"Who is this?"

There's a cough and shuffling of fabric or something against concrete. It's grating. "It's—," the man coughs, "It's Dick."

Bruce freezes. Because there's no way that it's Dick. His Dick, his son, is thirteen and in bed at that moment because it's three am and he has a mathlete competition the next day and needs his rest. There's no way it's Dick Grayson, because Dick Grayson exists in the here and now, all at once. But the timestamp on the computer jitters back and forth between the year now, 2011, and the year the transmission is coming from. The 11 flashing back and forth between 23. Bruce is either receiving a transmission from the future or this is an elaborate joke.

But he doesn't do jokes. So he says, "Dick. It's me."

Dick on the other end lets out a sigh of relief, almost laughing at this. Bruce doesn't know if he knows, he doesn't seem to, but the boy was good at hiding his feelings. He can imagine that at 25, Dick's gotten remarkably better at it. 25. Dear god, he's talking to his son in the future. His son, who sounds like he's in pain. His partner, who seems to be all alone and is calling the cave in a final attempt to talk to someone. His son, who's always talking.

"I'm… injured," Dick whispers, his voice strained over the line. "Thought… wanted to talk… to you." He swallowed loudly. "I think… dying."

Bruce doesn't want to hear this. He shouldn't be hearing this. The Bruce of this Dick's time should. Or he should be there. Bruce doesn't want to think of the circumstances of his son dying all alone and talking to someone who didn't know him, really, at all. Not in the way he thought.

"Where are you?" Bruce asks, but it's fruitless. What was he going to do? But he decides normalcy is best, probably the most adequate because Dick deserves that. But Bruce can't help feel like he's lying over and over to his son with every word.

"Blüd… haven alley somewhere," the man says. His voice is deeper and stronger and Bruce can only see the man he hopes his son will grow up to be. "But… too far, too late. I wanted," he swallows, "to talk. Apologize."

Bruce is standing up, how or when that happened he doesn't know because his legs feel stiff and his hands are hovering over the keys as if he can do something, anything. He feels helpless. "You have nothing to apologize for."

"Bullshit," the man says, but Bruce can hear the slight grin in his face. "I know we didn't really get along these past… years. But I'm so… thankful for you. For what you've done." Dick swallows again, and grunts in pain. He lets out a shaky breath and sucks in through his teeth. Bruce wants to tell him to not talk, to relax and that'll he'll be there but he's frozen, eyes wide beneath the cowl. "You… and I had a strained rela… relationship. I was kind… of a dick. Heh. But so were you."

"I was," Bruce lies through his teeth because he really doesn't know what else to say. "I'm sorry, Dick. I didn't want… I was doing what I thought was best."

"Yeah," Dick says, breath and voice shaky. "I know. You were right… sometimes." He coughs, sounding like he was hacking up his stomach. Bruce goes pale. But Dick relaxes apparently, his voice is softer. "Thank you, dad."

Dick has never called him dad before, not once except for one time when he was high on drugs and could've sworn that Bruce was John Grayson. If he was doing it like this, at 28, it meant that whatever had happened between them meant that this was important. That Dick was either calling Bruce dad for the first time or it was so few and far between that it still meant a lot. And it did. Bruce loved hearing that word suddenly, but he hated the circumstances. He wanted to bash the computer in, to scream in anger because where was he? Why wasn't he with his partner?

"You're welcome, chum," Bruce replies instead.

Dick lets out a hollow laugh. "Haven't called me chum in… years. I love you, Bruce."

"I love you too," Bruce says instantly. He's always struggled with those words, admitting his feelings. It's not because he was vulnerable, everyone was and how he wanted to be perceived didn't change the fact that that he was human like everyone else. It was because he didn't think he could give the feeling of love justice. He didn't think he could do it right. But maybe, even if their apparent relationship was strained in the future, maybe he had done something right.

"Can you… tell the others. Jason, Tim, Damian. Steph," he coughs again. "Cass. Tell them I'm so sorry. I love them. I'm gonna miss… miss them. Tell Jason I should've been better to him. I'm sorry and I love him too. He's so much stronger than me and I wish… could've had a better… it's my fault."

Bruce thinks again that he shouldn't be hearing this, that he feels like he's listening to something private and wrong and not for his ears. It isn't really. Dick goes on before Bruce can say anything.

"Tim is… going places. I think he's the smartest guy I know. Tell Steph it's definitely purple. And Cass that… that I wish I could see her dance one last time. And Damian… tell Damian that I'm so sorry. And that… that I, argh, that I am glad… I got to be sort of a dad to him," Dick whispers, grunting in pain. Bruce wonders what he's dying from. But then he doesn't want to know. "I'm so proud of him. So proud. He's a great… kid. I love him. God there's so much I want to say." He takes in another shaky breath and Bruce thinks he can hear him sitting up.

"And Barbara," Dick seems to become a little more alert now. "I wish I could've married her. I love her so much. She's the most beautiful… woman I've never met. Just tell her I said… hello from the other side and… that I will always, always be hers."

Bruce smiles actually, because Dick and Barbara are still go friends. He's curious as to why in the future they didn't make it but he keeps his mouth shut. Dick is breathing heavily and his words seems to fade a little as he speaks. They were getting few and far between.

"I'll tell them."

"Good…," Dick breathes, "That's good. I..." He stops and his breathing is haggard. "I don't want to die," he whispers.

Bruce sobers up instantly, stiffening up and looking at the screen. He almost wishes, and the regrets the thought, that he could see Dick up there. But he doesn't want to see another family member close to him die. He's already seen two more than he should've. And he doesn't know if he could handle it. "No one does," Bruce says. But he isn't sure what else to say. Words fail him. He's never been good with them. He wished they would magically appear, that he'd just know what to say. What does a father say to his son as his son is dying?

He feels like Dick is the baby deer that Bruce has stumbled on years ago. Something he wasn't meant to find, belonging to a family that Bruce didn't know.

"I'm… it hurts," Dick breathes. He is getting quieter. He matches the cave. Silent but still moving, still alive, still existing. It moves on. So it goes. "I don't want… I don't…"

"Just breathe, Dick," Bruce says. "Just breathe."

"Trying…" Dick chokes out. "Trying… alive."

"I'm here. Breathe. You're okay, you're safe," Bruce repeats. But he doesn't know that, not really. He knows that Dick is dying. But not of what. Or how. Or by whom.

"Would… bad to say… just a flesh wound?" Dick asks through the transmission, chuckling a little. Bruce allows himself a small, albeit grim, smile.

"It might be a little cheery," Bruce admits. "But that's just who you are. I'm so proud of you. Your parents would be too Dick, I know it."

"Thanks…'ruce," Dick says, "Maybe I… see them… 'gain."

"Maybe," Bruce says softly. "Tell me where you are. Just… please."

Dick's heavy breathing fills the cave. "By Wharf Street and 6th. By a bakery. See… lights. 'm alone."

"We'll get you."

"My… will… apartment," Dick says.

"I'll get it, Dick. I promise," Bruce whispers, his voice strained. He thinks about how he shouldn't be hearing this again. At 25, probably earlier, his son has written a will.

"Thank you," Dick whispers. There's strangled breathing. And then the transmission falls silent. There's not breathing. No voice or coughing or anything. The time keeps going up. Bruce doesn't know how long it's been. It feels like hours.

"Dick?" he breathes.

There's no response.

"Dick?" his voice cracks and breaks. He stumbles back into the chair, his chest tightening. The transmission is still running. In the distance, somewhere off in Blüdhaven for whatever reason, a car passes by. It's raining in the future too. "I love you," he says to no one.

Bruce slowly reaches forward to end the transmission. The record button records all interactions between the Batcave and the comm. links. The conversation is saved forever under the date. Bruce moves it to his separate folder under his password. He secures it, knowing that Dick, his Dick, can never see or hear it. He hopes the boy will keep his nose out of it, but he had the uncanny ability to just discover what he was never meant to see.

Oh god. He pulls the cowl off. He wants to cry, but he can't even manage that. He just feels a little numb. He shuts off the computer and turns away, the only light coming from the low blue lights hanging from the ceiling. He goes to the changing room and takes off the bat suit and goes up to the manor. It's quiet but in the distance he can barely see light on the horizon from the windows. It's nearing 4 in the morning.

He walked up the stairs and paused outside of Dick's room. He shook his head and turned the knob, turning in and walking over to the bed. Dick was lying there, one leg slung over away from his sheets and one arm over his head. His mouth was open and he wasn't even on the pillow. Bruce sat down on the bed, putting his hand on Dick's head, brushing back his hair. The boy shifted closer to him.

"Bruce?" he whispers. It's not the deeper, adult voice. It's the child. A boy. A thirteen year old who would get up and go to his competition without a worry. And Bruce would have to look him in the eye and know that he would die alone in some alley, with a man miles and years away who didn't understand his requests and couldn't help him. Dick was dead. God. Somewhere. And there was nothing he could do.

"Hey, chum," Bruce says. "Go back to sleep."

"M'kay," the boy mumbles.

Bruce leaves the room a little later, kissing the boy on the forehead. He goes and lays down in his room.

He can't even sleep. He doesn't know if he'll be able to for a while.


End file.
